


A Summons to Foolish Blood

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James loves keeping secrets. Unfortunately, he hates when everyone else keeps them from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summons to Foolish Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_nextgen_fest**](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/) (yeah, idek why I never posted this!). Title borrowed from James Joyce.  
>  Thanks forever and ever amen to my beta [](http://literaryspell.livejournal.com/profile)[**literaryspell**](http://literaryspell.livejournal.com/) for her last-minute assistance, Brit-picking, and tireless love of incest. <3

  


  
**A Summons to Foolish Blood**   


** James **

James loves keeping secrets. Unfortunately, he hates when everyone else keeps them from him. It drives him crazy, makes him feel unbalanced, like bugs are scuttering under his skin. He expects nothing less than honest and open understanding when it comes to these matters. He shines a light in on the monsters in everybody's closets, revealing the ugly, distorted, grotesque things they keep clutched behind closed wardrobe doors.

Thus it comes as a great surprise to James when he first notices that Albus might be attracted to him. Because James did not ever think his brother kept any secrets from him, it makes him hot and bothered inside, like a riddle he finds impossible to solve without looking up a hint first.

This is because Albus is not just his brother but his best friend. They are nearly twins, separated by merely one year and the colour of their eyes. James takes after his mother, with brown eyes and a fiery passion for Quidditch. Albus takes after his father, with green eyes and natural magical abilities that shake his opponents to the core. The two brothers are as emotionally close as twins too, able to think the same thoughts and feel the same pain. They wear their hair in the same fashion—dark messy fringes spilling over olive-skinned foreheads—and even though James has his mum's freckles and Albus got lucky as the only one of the Potter brood to lack them, neither hold any of it against the other. Thick as thieves, they share everything: clothes, food, achievements, desires, skills, and secrets.

Finding out that Albus has kept something from him is not quite as devastating as knowing it is the one thing they don't seem to have in common.

James begins to feel ashamed that he doesn't understand something about Albus, that they can't share in the joy of the secret being revealed, so James tries for a long time to let it go. But if there is one thing James is not good at (and it is possible there _is_ only this one thing) it's pretending he doesn't know something he's not supposed to. It festers like a mould in his heart, spreads like a cancer from atrium to ventricle to lungs, where he breathes it in despite his best attempts otherwise. Clogged with the fat of the meaty secret, it coagulates, thickens, sets, dropping like a stone into his gut every time he looks at Albus.

When he looks at Albus now, he does not see his brother but some stranger he barely knows. He begins to isolate himself from every shared activity, in the hopes that it is for the greater good and someday he will be able to tell Albus why it has to be this way and they will both smile in understanding and move forward and be close again.

Except everything he tries seems to upset Albus. When James sits at the Hufflepuff table with Saoirse Flynn, he spies Albus glowering over the top of his pudding. Albus' childlike cheeks are red, and James knows that look. It is the same look Albus gives to their mum when she forbids Albus something, the same look Albus has on his face when things don't go his way or he has something to say but can't. James knows that look all right, but he has never seen it directed at him.

Though he is not embarrassed, James ducks his head and leans in to ask Flynn a question about a Quidditch move he read about in a magazine. Flynn doesn't know the move. Albus would. Albus reads the same magazines that James does. In fact, they usually sit together on one bed, heads pushed together under the covers, two wands casting light over muscled jocks, who practise the newest and craziest Quidditch stunts over and over again across the glossy expanses of fold-out pages. James and Albus always discuss the moves, always memorize them so they can show off at the Weasley-Potter get-togethers in front of Mum and Dad especially. Dad is always quick to jump forward and challenge them, but Mum always tells him he's too old for backflips.

James remembers sitting up late with Albus nearly every night, until sometimes it is actually very early in the morning when they fall asleep together, nestled under one blanket in the same skinny bed, side-by-side. He wonders if this was part of leading Albus on, if being close to him as a brother means something altogether more to Albus than just familial love. James wonders why he never thought to stay up with Lily like he stays up with Albus, but he supposes it is because he and Albus are barely a year apart and Lily is three years under and a girl and not even interested in Quidditch or rock bands or wrestling in the mud after a good rain or sneaking up on firsties and telling them they owe a hallway tax or skinny dipping in the lake to taunt the Giant Squid or trying to swim low enough to see the mermaids because someone told them their breasts are always exposed.

Lily is nothing like James. Albus is exactly like him in every perfect way.

James excuses himself from the table, glancing towards the Gryffindor table, where Albus is not eating his breakfast but instead watching James' every move. Their eyes lock, Albus rises, and James lets him follow out the doors and down the long, bustling hallway. It is a Saturday, thank fuck, and when they arrive in the loo, James scans the bathroom quickly for onlookers. He knows this conversation demands privacy, so after skirting out a firstie, he lifts his wand and locks and silences the room.

Albus is leaning against the sinks, his short, just-like-Dad's body arched as he folds his arms and grins a grin that looks exactly like James'.

"All right, James?"

James hesitates but it's weird not to nod or automatically be all right in his brother's presence. Instead of answering, he makes a show of pocketing his wand. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Albus shifting uncomfortably, grin dropping quickly.

Finally, the silence seems to have eaten away at Albus, who gripes, "Right, then. What did I do? Is this about putting your toothbrush in the toilet? It was just a joke. I'll clean it off for you. Or, um, is it because I left without you this morning? I had to go find Lily."

James looks up, unable to keep the snort from his laugh. "Hang on, can we go back to that bit about my toothbrush?"

Albus' grin returns in full force. "You used it this morning, didn't you? Now you've got poo-for-breath, I'm sure."

"Shut it! I do not have poo-for-breath."

"Only one way to find out."

Albus strides forward. Normally, James would stand his ground, but he fights a losing battle as all kinds of sordid images pop up of what Albus means by that statement. He backs up so quickly that he bumps his head against the wall. Albus doesn't seem to notice his skittishness, considering he has never acted this jittery before, and presses close until their mouths and noses and chins are but mere millimetres apart. He sniffs a few times, parts his lips as if that helps, and then looks up at James innocently.

"You didn't brush," Albus accuses.

"Did, too."

"No way. I can smell the peanut butter on your breath from dinner last night." James thinks Albus looks beautiful with that pout, like a life-size doll with cupid-kissed lips. "My joke would have been a whole lot funnier if you'd just brushed, poo-for-breath."

"I _did_ brush." Now James is getting a bit flustered, and he knows his cheeks are burning, and he doesn't want to talk about poo-for-breath but he doesn't much want to talk about the things they need to talk about, either. It is all making his head hurt.

"Yeah? Hold still."

Albus' fingers are warm when they grip James' chin. James is two inches taller than Albus, so when he is forced down to eye-level he has to crane his neck awkwardly. He doesn't like the way Albus looks at him; it is as if Albus can see through everything when they are this close, like nothing separates them except James' refusal to be the same in all things.

"Breathe, James."

The reminder is a soft one, exhaled against the parted expanse of James' mouth. He does not have cupid-kissed lips like Al's—his are longer, thinner, like a marionette painted wrong. He can feel every freckle, pimple, and birthmark under Albus' interrogative eyes magnified and multiplied beyond what he can handle. The moment is so tentative that when James does breathe, he thinks he has shattered the sanctity of it. A long time ago, they could have just been brothers who shared secrets and stories and now they have become something wrong and weary and troubled.

James breathes, lets it all out and faces his brother like a man. They aren't men yet, but James can pretend because make believe is the game of choice between them all other times, so why not this one, too?

James breathes and Albus sniffs again, but he is so close that his short nose brushes against the round of James' cheek.

"Liar," Albus whispers, letting the word linger on his lips, daring James to say otherwise.

They stare at one another for what seems to be an eternity but couldn't be more than five seconds. The silence tears through James like a bad wind, and his fingers tremble with the aftershock-shivers rippling through his lean body from the bend of his neck to the bottom of his feet.

When Albus catches his gaze, it is with a tentative anxiety that James has never seen there before. How has he missed it, all this time? How couldn't he have known while they raced through gardens in the summer, when they swam through rivers in the fall, when they guarded their tall, white snow-huts in winter and chased the delicacy of youth through spring? He sees it now, so fragile and small, closed off from everything that James has ever known about Albus. He knows he could smash it to bits with one simple word, and Albus would let him, and they'd never speak of it again, and things would be normal.

Except normal is not a word that belongs to the Potter boys, and James' fingers are already crawling through his brother's hair and his lips are already saying the things that can never be retrieved.

"I saw you." James is shaking, his voice just shy of a whisper and short of a plea. "I saw you, watching me undress. I saw the look on your face. I saw the light flash in your eyes. And I know what you're thinking, and I tried to just ignore it, because you're my bloody brother, Albus, and I love you, but if you get the wrong impression from anything I'm doing, I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry I can't give you what you're looking for."

Albus gives nothing away. If any of what James saw was the truth, Albus does not let on in his reaction. His lack of reaction is a better way to put it—all that is different is that Albus swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing thickly. He shifts just enough that James' fingers fall free from his hair. Then he looks up, blinks, and grins.

Something in James coils tightly at the sight of it.

"I didn't really put your toothbrush in the toilet," Albus admits. "I wouldn't do that. Er, not to you, anyway."

If Albus wants to drop it and forget James ever blurted it out, then James will give him that peace eagerly. He ruffles his brother's hair and sighs.

"I know. But I did brush, so it would have been wicked funny."

Albus backs off instantly, snorting; the sound is an echo of his brother. "I know."

They share a knowing smile between the space that separates them. It seems wider somehow, but James knows he is imaging things.

~*~

** Albus **

James is not imagining the wide extension of the space between them. Albus creates it purposely, stands an extra inch from his brother just to ensure he is not at a distance where he can inhale the rich, musky scent of James and get _that look_ on his face again. Now that James knows that look, Albus has a much harder time hiding it behind a book at the library while they study or in the brush of their fingertips while they jostle through the crowds to get to classes.

But above the need for James that rose out of nowhere and crested one night beyond Albus' control, Albus just wants things to go back to normal. He wants James to be able to pick him up and swing him around the room again without thinking Albus is getting off on it. He wants them to share their sugar quills, tasting his brother's mouth all over it, without James thinking Albus savours the moment a bit too long. He wants their huddle over Quidditch magazines in the Gryffindor common room every evening to be comfortable, without James thinking that Albus sits too close or breathes too heavily or bumps their shoulders more times than necessary.

There has never been anything to cause discomfort between them except the argument over who gets the last bite of treacle tart at Grandma Weasley's, but with one stolen glance and a supposed light in his green eyes, Albus seems to have created a whole mess of the situation. He knows James knows what he saw, but now James thinks he was imagining it, which is only half better.

It would be all better if James liked it, too. If James understood.

Albus stays close but pretends there is nothing wrong. When James makes a bad joke, Albus laughs as he always does. He walks James to his classes, meets him in the Great Hall for dinner, bundles under Dad's invisibility cloak at night to dart through the hallways and howl at the moon out on the snow-covered grounds, and stays up later than he truly wants to because James is restless. Albus makes sure things are just as they have always been.

But when James hops in the shower one Hogsmeade weekend some weeks later, Albus hangs back. Alone, he kneels on his brother's bed, runs his fingers over the unwashed sheets James slept on that morning, feels the soft material rub against his trousers.

Albus knows he has exactly sixteen minutes before James finishes washing. Sixteen minutes to curl up against James' pillow, sixteen minutes to clench the sheets to his nose, to inhale his brother's scent, to slide a hand down his trousers and into his pants and past the barricade he has built between the things that are right and the things he knows he desperately needs. Sixteen minutes to stroke the way he knows James would do it—hard, raw, fast, with _one-two-three_ precision. Sixteen minutes and counting to come.

Rigid with adoration, Albus thinks about the way James looks at him when he has strawberry juice dribbling down his chin, remembers all the times James kissed his skinned knees as a child and all the ways in which James loves him. Because no matter what, James does love him. James loves everyone so openly and honestly, but no one gets to be loved by James like Albus does—with his entire body, mind, and spirit.

Stroking fast, Albus thinks about how he and James are always touching, hugging, rubbing, wrestling, pinning, squeezing, pinching, shoving, and generally connected by more than just mere bloodlines. They are two sides of one soul, inherently and complicatedly intertwined. Albus bows his head, jerks his hips, thinks, _this is how James looks when he does it, strong like a man, inexperienced like a boy_ , and comes on his brother's wrinkled sheets with half of his pillowcase bit between his teeth and two fingers up his arse.

When he is done, he lies panting on James' bed and floats away to another place. On the bedside table, there is a picture of the entire Potter-Weasley family, including the cousins, uncles, aunts, and extended family who aren't even related. The picture is so full of people that it's impossible to point out one person from the pack. But off to the right, James and Albus are wrapped arm-around-shoulder, touching every place they can, beaming brightly with all the sacred little nothings whispered between the lines, and Albus knows they are the only two people in that picture who matter in the world.

There is one person who is born to be with one other person. They come out of the womb searching, and they do not stop until they find their soul mate. Some people will never find that person, and Albus thinks often how horrible and sad those people must be. Albus is thankful his soul mate is his brother, his blood, his best mate. Even if it is impossible to make James see it, Albus sees it and feels it with his whole being, and that alone gives him enough happiness to let all else fall by the wayside.

Albus curls in against the pillows, coming down from the high of orgasm. He can smell James everywhere. Lazily, he thrusts his hips against the sticky-sweet sheets that he has coated with his seed and feels the rush of adrenaline build. Albus always has two orgasms when he thinks about James—the first is always nice and the second is always overwhelmed with ecstasies beyond his control.

Quietly, he moans when the friction of the sheets moves along his dick. He is only half-hard by now, but it does not take much except a few thoughts of how James licks the tip of his quill so often when he's stressed that he has a near-permanent ink blot on his tongue to get Albus going again. He has not even had time to remove his fingers from his arse, and he hasn't even used lube—just the quick slick of saliva from his mouth—so a whole other kind of sound is released when he tries to move them in and out.

It is uncomfortable. It hurts a little. Albus thinks James might like it that way—strained and inconsistent and jarring. Albus will feel it all day and think how much better it would be if it was his brother's rigid, twice-as-big-as-his length and not his dry fingers pulsing in and out of his arse. When he walks, Albus will twinge a little remembering how it felt on that first pull-out, as he gasps and digs his teeth into the pillow hard enough to bite right through.

It is while he is pushing back in that his arse begins to protest and clench, but again, Albus thinks James would like that. He thinks it would feel real good if it was James splitting him apart, if it was James holding his hips down, and if it was James gripping his dick to relieve the pressure building with every awkward, painful, clumsy thrust.

It is when Albus shifts to turn his head to the other side that he sees the shadow, hesitantly hovering at the threshold of the room. Albus stops breathing. It could be Braddock Belzberg, who always comes back early from Hogsmeade, or Sebastian Gloucester and Adrian Lancet who would pay good money to be able to tell the entire class of Seventh Year students about how Albus Potter was caught sodomizing himself and moaning for it.

But some part of Albus knows it is not any of James' roommates who are standing at the door. It is the only person who really can't handle seeing Albus like this, the only person Albus _wants_ to see him like this, and the only person who could ruin everything by finishing his shower five minutes too soon.

For a moment, there is no sound except Albus' panting and the stillness of someone trying not to move in the darkness. Then, Albus strains himself just enough to ensure it is James who stands there watching—he can tell by the lightly-freckled chicken legs and the lean muscle twitching impatiently in each boyish calf. Knowing it is his brother, knowing this is the one moment that could change everything for better or for worse and until death do they part, Albus shoves in to the hilt and cries out the one word that he knows will make or break this show: " _James_."

There is the sound of hitched breath and gooseflesh sizzling on skin. There is the drop of pyjamas and the frantic pound of two hearts thumping in allegro-staccato speed. There is the rustle of the sheets as Albus props himself up and the noise of James' body flattening against the dresser. There is a moment of hesitation, a gasp of pleasure and pain, and the drip of pre-come dribbling down the head of his dick.

"Tell me what to do," Albus demands. He is flushed, but in the darkness, the colour is thankfully masked. "Pleases, James, if you can't touch me, just tell me what to do and watch me do it, and I'll do whatever you say, and if you don't like it, you can stop or tell me to stop and we will."

This is a test. It is only a test. James can pass or fail, and the outcome will determine whether or not they will repeat this moment again or pretend it never happened, like the moment in the loo with James pressed to the wall and trapped in his fear, wrangled tight with knowing.

Albus' appeal is so tight in his throat that it is hard to swallow. He hopes both that he has said the words aloud and that he accidentally just mouthed them instead, because neither action seems like it will be all right. The silence that drags on bruises him.

He adds, " _Please_ ," because he does not know how to describe the ache for James through words.

The answer is slow coming, but finally, Albus can hear James shift. The towel drops to the floor somewhere beyond. The door closes. A lock clicks in place. Albus' balls grow heavy.

"Lube," James says.

His voice is a summons to Albus' foolish blood, tugging at his insides like strings to a puppet. Albus is about to reach for the nightstand—he knows James keep a bottle of lube there, because he's seen it and smelled it on James' body when they are pressed together some nights when they stay up too late on school nights. But before Albus can move, James is at his side, rummaging through the nightstand to get it for him. Albus is thankful, because his fingers are still buried knuckles-deep, and he's heaving for breath.

"Here."

James leans over Albus. Albus can smell the scent of James, uncompromised by the musky scent of his bath gel and shampoo. James smells like James, like the first time Albus tried brewing Amortentia in Potions and the aroma of James filled the room and made Albus sick with desire. James is the heady scent of grass on the Quidditch pitch and dirt-stains from the hills; he is raw leather straps, worn magazines, and spiced hot cocoa on cold winter nights.

James leans over Albus and pops the bottle of lube open. Albus looks up, but James won't look at him. He feels the trickle of lube over his knuckles, slithering between his fingers, and he can't stop the moan from exhaling past his thick, parted lips.

Slowly, Albus removes his fingers. He can feel the lube leaking into his arse. It's got some kind of warming charm on it, and Albus likes the way it tingles a bit. His fingers are slick and obscene as he presses them back in, pulls them out, and catches a pulsing rhythm. He abandons his dick, which is so hard that it's somewhat uncomfortable arching up into his belly, and grips the sheets instead. Still attempting to get James to look at him, he flushes when he notices where James' beautiful brown eyes are directed—right on his arse, where his fingers scissor gently and awkwardly bend to get a good dig into the depths as far as he can reach in this strange position.

"What—what else?" Albus asks, daring to break the intense silence since James' last command.

James does not miss a beat. He says, "Faster," in a dark tone that leaves little room to argue.

Albus groans low and long, arching his arse up as high as he can go. He slides his fingers in faster and begins to pant. His arm is in pain crooked at this angle, he wants to spread farther but his pants are still shoved down at thighs and he's afraid to move to kick them off.

"Harder," James says, without waiting for Albus to ask.

Albus feels his cheeks warm all over. He shoves his fingers in, yanks them out, and repeats until his body is shining with sweat and he's arched so uncomfortably that his muscles are jerking with spasms. But just listening to James breathing hard beside him and telling him what to do has brought Albus close to the brink. He knows he could come like this, but he doesn't want to; he would rather come with James touching him somehow, with James pushing or grabbing or bruising or fucking.

So he removes his fingers and braces his sweaty arm to the sheets to get the feeling back in it. He looks up at James and sees a strange mix of emotions race across his face before he reins them in at Albus' gaze.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

Albus feels like someone has knocked the wind from his lungs. He shakes his head, licks his lips, and draws up onto his knees before his brother. For the first time, he notices James' dick—James is completely nude, the towel long forgotten somewhere in the darkness, and his length is flaccid. Albus begins to worry that James will never truly feel the same, but he reaches for it anyway, because maybe all James needs is encouragement and the comfort of knowing Albus loves him beyond what a brother can provide.

James grunts. The sound is hard and rough and assaults Albus' cock as if James was touching it, but he's not. James is standing there rigidly, abdomen tight and clenched, shoulders hunched, eyes hard but mouth slack. At his lean sides, James' hands are clenched to fists.

"Albus," he warns. He sounds almost like Dad, like he is reprimanding and there will be consequences to disobeying.

"Just let me," Albus pleads. "If you don't like it, just say so, and I'll stop. I swear I'll stop, James, but, Merlin, I've wanted you for so long like this." Albus crawls closer, jerking James slowly so that all the skin pulls back and he can feel the base twitching when he squeezes. "Come here."

This is the tentative moment Albus dreams about when James isn't looking, the ultimate fantasy of everything he has ever wanted. He has practised it alone, in front of mirrors, under the sheets, and everywhere in between, but he has always wondered if James would say yes or no.

James says nothing as Albus leans in, does nothing as Albus' lips brush that nearly-just-like-his mouth. James is rigid everywhere now, his dick hardening in Albus' fist quickly with every slow stroke and squeeze. Albus slides his free hand into his brother's damp hair, dragging his blunt-bitten nails through and finding it harder to breathe than he should.

Finally, they connect, and it is not Albus who moves first but James. It is James who shoves his mouth against his brother's, James who traces his wet tongue against the part of Albus' lips, and James who tips their bodies to the bed and pins Albus' hands above his head.

There is a moment of struggle as they find their balance. James is growling and kissing with animalistic vigour, swallowing Albus' tongue or shoving his own down until it licks the furthest corners of Albus' mouth. Beneath James' body, Albus is pinned by his strength and agile precision—James seems to know how he wants it, and though Albus struggles because he's wanted it longer, he lets James take the lead and submits eagerly. Awkwardly, he tries to wriggle out of his pants, but before he can manage to move them an inch, James yanks them away with a groan.

Their bodies move together, rubbing and riding, and their mouths are joined for as long as they can manage without needing to pull away. James has Albus' wrists both held above his head with one of his own hands, and James' free hand claims the spot on Albus' hips where his birthmark sits. James knows it is there—he must, as he's seen every inch of his brother and could map it blindfolded—so when his fingers rub the discoloured shape, Albus knows it means more than just a touch.

"Your dick," Albus pants, writhing to get a word in beyond the kiss. "Put it in my mouth."

James does not argue. He seems to have released himself from the cage of denial, and now he is moving on pure instinct, adrenaline, and passion. James slides up until his legs are straddling Albus neck. He lets go of Albus' wrists, so Albus slides his hands both over James' length, one gripping the base and the other pulling the head into his mouth.

Albus wastes no time. He knows James has never done this before, and Albus has waited for him because he didn't want to do it with anybody else. Eagerly, he swallows James and groans at the taste, the texture, the fill. His cheeks hollow; he sucks until he gags, then tries again, until he establishes a rhythm that rocks the bed beneath them.

"So—so good," James breathes. He is looking down, so Albus looks up. Their eyes meet, and James looks ready to run or come or both. So Albus presses one hand to his hips to steady him. "God, Al—don't stop, your mouth is so good, just don't stop, please don't stop." James grunts, James groans, James bucks, James whines. "It's always been me, hasn't it? You've always pictured this, my dick blistering in your mouth? Tell me it's just me, no one else." James' fingers tangle in Albus' hair possessively.

With a groan, Albus settles both hands on James' hips, presses them away so he can pull his face free. He licks his lips, then licks James' dick with the flat of his tongue from his soft balls to the slit at the head of his length.

"Only you," Albus breathes. "And you?"

"Only you. Thought I was sick, thought it wasn't right, but I want all of you—not just the parts that are brotherly."

Albus doesn't know if he should laugh or cry, so he does neither and just swallows his brother's dick again. James cries out and begins to buck his hips, riding his dick down Albus' throat. And James does the unthinkable then and grips Albus by his balls, then runs his fingers clumsily up Albus' stiff dick and begins to jerk him off. Albus chokes, but Albus lets his brother do it, bracing himself for the climax that is inevitably there five thrusts later.

James goes rigid, entire body still except the pulse of his dick as it releases, and then thrusts shallowly and sharply to ride out the orgasm, fist moving in tandem below at Albus' length. Albus swallows what he can, splutters out the rest sloppily and promises himself that he will apologize later, but then he is coming and coming and coming, and they collapse in a sweaty mess to the sheets against one another.

The bed is too small for two people, but that has never bothered them before. Arms wrap lazily, lungs breathe, mouths seek mouths. James kisses Albus first, and Albus hums at his luck.

They are brothers only in blood but lovers and mates in everything else. Now Albus knows it's true, and he's not the only one lost to the feel of the _sogood_ itch under his skin.

~*~

** James **

For just a moment when James wakes up in the morning, he feels ashamed for having touched his brother. But it is only a fleeting moment, one that passes with the gentle rise of the sun and the look on Albus' face when they meet up in the common room to head out for breakfast.

Albus has told him, "There's no taking advantage of someone who's begging for it, stupid," and James finally understands and believes him. Maybe at first, he thought Albus was misguided in his feelings, that Albus would regret anything that happened beyond brotherly affection, but there is a difference between being related because you are blood and being lovers because you know you're mates for life.

James understands it now—there is no one left on Earth for him except Albus, who is his partner in crime, his secret-keeper, his soul mate, his lover, and his everything else that makes them connect and grin and know exactly what that grin means without words.

In the hallways between classes, their fingers are always touching. They exchange hidden messages with every quirk, twitch, brush, and smirk. James grips the curve of Albus' elbow; that means, "Meet me tonight by the Lake." Albus tugs on James' tie and flips it over his brother's shoulder; that means, "Let's snog in the loo." And when their fingertips catch and twine under the Gryffindor table during dinner, that means, "I love you. You're mine."

There is no regret in James' mind. No hesitation when he presses his brother against the cold stone in the Astronomy Tower and does what he knows Albus has hoped he would do since the first time they came here to stare up at the stars. They kiss, and time slows to a quivering stop, pulled to a pause to allow them to connect. Secretless, they are whole.


End file.
